Red Strings
by kinatheokay
Summary: Zig Novak is one of the only people who truly knows what Maya Matlin is like behind the scenes, and despite his best efforts, he can't seem to figure out how to really help her. However, when the two are partnered together for an interesting assignment, Zig finds himself rather inspired.
1. Chapter 1

**Zig**

I think her lack of sleep is starting to bring _me_ nightmares; as light of a sleeper as I have become, the moment my eyes seal the nighttime shut for a few moments' rest, her face is the first image to surface from the blackness. I know it's difficult, maybe even impossible, to backtrack to the beginnings of dreams (that was a major point in that DiCaprio movie, right? You can tell you're dreaming if you try to think of how you got there and can't recall?) but I know it always starts with her. She could be smiling, laughing, crying—she's usually crying—but it's always, _always_ her. And then something happens. Something I'm terrified to admit so deeply that the second I even start to notice her considering it, the twinkle in her eye that states she knows the step to take, I startle myself awake.

"Novak!"

I didn't even realize I'd drifted off until I felt the jab of Grace's elbow into my shoulder, jolting me. Usually it's the screams of Maya Matlin in the wee hours of the night that raise me from my own pre-REM state, but this is just as effective.

"What?" I don't mean to sound so groggy. I'm just so tired lately.

She raises an eyebrow in her sassy Grace way and lets out a small laugh of mockery. "Someone didn't get their beauty sleep last night."

"Aw, what happened, Ziggy? Long night?" From beside her, Tiny's smirk is evident in his voice. Did everyone get here since I nodded off? My eyes wander the rubber room to find it full of its usual delinquents, far more packed than I remember it being before I'd decided to _just rest my eyes for a moment_. Luckily, everyone seemed pretty occupied in their own working conversations, so it wasn't like my slacking was put on display. I always hate when teachers do that.

"Probably," Grace counters teasingly, bringing me back, "You don't see Blondie here, do you?" Tiny laughs and '_ooh_'s in agreement.

"You guys are creeps." I roll my eyes before settling them on the empty chair that Maya usually occupies. I knew that she'd be late today, but I guess I figured she'd be here by now. She'd had a late night last night, as she has been for so long now, and constantly, I woke up from my visions of her tearstained face to find the real thing in her bed, upright and gasping for breath to remind her she had only been dreaming. I'll check on her once or twice a night, but I know she feels guilty if I pause my own resting to check on hers too many times, but there were four counts I heard of her waking up in a cold sweat, screaming Miles's name in terror.

It's a nightly thing, so much so that I've developed habits surrounding it; I pre-cook breakfasts for her the night before since her sleeplessness makes her less likely to feed herself, pack an extra sandwich in my brown bag in case she forgets her lunch money at home—I've even kept some sleep remedies ready for her in the door of the fridge, like brewed tea and milk in microwave-ready mugs and bottles of melatonin. Between her violent awakenings, I sneak in to follow my routine. Since she's sloped so low downhill, I took to researching the teen magazines she leaves lying around to get acquainted with _the latest trends _so that I can lay clothes out for her. Each morning, she wakes up to my attempt at mimicking her fashion sense, a full set of clothes with accessories to match, maybe even a few makeup options if I think she'll feel up to it judging from the night before. She hardly ever adjusts my selections, but I can't tell if that means I'm choosing well, or if she's just too lethargic to style herself. I know she assumes it's been her mother, convinced that her parents are attempting to keep her image presentable, but sometimes I think she considers the possibility that I'm the culprit. She already has me brushing her hair since she lets it get so tangled when no one's looking. She asked me to do it once because she "couldn't reach" the knots at the nape of her neck, but I could tell from combing through it that she hadn't touched it in days. Since then, I just tell her that I like tending to her hair because I "miss my own", but I'm pretty sure she doesn't buy that for a second.

Since she was waking up more than she was sleeping, though, I crept into her room this morning and set her alarm back an hour, not enough time to make her alarmingly late, but an adequate amount of extra Z's. I figured she'd be here by now.

"Ouch." Tiny sucks a sharp breath through his gritted teeth, clutching his chest with feigned pain. "That hurt, man. _Creeps._"

"Yeah, seriously, we're just looking out for you," Grace grins, folding her arms over her chest, "We know Matlin's kept you blue-balled so we got a little excited."

I close my eyes and drift my head back, scrubbing a hand over my face. "Is this why you guys woke me up? To torment me?"

"Actually, we were coming over to see if you'd be willing to trade assignments with us."

"What assignments?"

"The one Grell just handed out…?"

I quirk my eyebrows and return my gaze to Grace. "Wait, Grell's here already?"

"Yeah, class is pretty much over. She tried to wake you up but you weren't budging so she let you sleep. Said she felt bad 'cause you look so tired all the time."

The bridge of my nose crinkles. "I do not."

"Lately?" Grace raises her eyebrows, "Yeah. You do. Anyway, it's this dumb shit." She takes a piece of paper from Tiny's hands and offers it to me. As I take it to read the specifications, she paraphrases. "Apparently, we're continuing our efforts to _humanize the remedial students_ so we got signed up to volunteer at some multicultural fair at the elementary school."

I furrow my brows. "What?"

"Yeah, it's stupid," She continues, "She gave us all a different piece of folklore from different countries and we have to come up with some kind of presentation for it to do in front of these kids. You and Matlin got one about a girl with no arms or something. Ms. Grell said it was kind of gruesome so it needs to get toned down, but it sounded cool."

"Wait, I'm working with Maya?"

"Well, yeah," Grace raises a brow, "You were asleep and she's not here. Plus, Grell figured it would be easiest for you to fill her in on what she misses since you live with her."

"Of course, you'd have to be awake to know what exactly that _is_," Tiny adds with an amused smile.

Grace nods, "I think she said your legend is Russian. She probably gave it to you thinking that you knew it already because you're Russian and that's totally racist and definitely the reason why you should switch with us."

My forehead creases. "Why, what do you guys have?"

She pinches her lips as if to hold back a cheeky smile and turns over the paper in my hand, tapping the highlighted text at the top.

I blink. "The red string of fate."

"It's this legend about how people are born with this invisible red string around their pinkies. If you follow the string, the other end of it is tied to the pinkie of your soulmate."

I stare up at her.

"…I know, it's lame as hell, but at least if you two do it, Matlin'll enjoy it. She's into all that sappy chick flick stuff. If you make us keep it, we'll both want to blow our brains out."

"You know how bad that would look, right? 'Hey Maya, you missed one day of school and you _just so happened_ to be partnered with _me _on a project about _soulmates. _I _definitely_ had _nothing_ to do with it'!"

Tiny raises a hand, "Hey, if nothing else, you can tell her that you took the project from us because you didn't trust Grace to talk about all that sweet lovey-dovey crap to a bunch of kids. You know she'd tell them it's garbage."

Grace nods, "It's true. I'd smash their dreams. Absolutely destroy their concepts of love and hope and soulmates and make them hate every minute of it. I'd be much better at talking to them about a girl who got her arms cut off. Not breaking any little hearts there."

"Exactly," Tiny nods as well, "Do it for the kids, man."

I shake my head, "But—"

"_The kids_." He whispers.

I groan, "_Fine._ But if she thinks it's all a ploy for me to win her over, I'm throwing you both under the bus."

They both grin and Grace nods, swiping the assignment sheet placed on the empty chair beside me. "We'll live. I'm pretty sure we can withstand the wrath of Princess Matlin."

I chuckle, looking down at the paper in my hands. "That's because you haven't known her as long as I have."


	2. Chapter 2

**Maya**

The house is so quiet it's painful. Save for the few times my mom peeked in my room to ask me if I need anything, it's been like this all day. From the moment my alarm stirred me an hour later than it was supposed to, I knew I just...couldn't today.

That's become my least favorite feeling, actually. _Can't. _I don't do well in situations I have no power over, I've found. Call me a control freak but I need the knowledge that I _can _make a difference in any given situation (whether or not it's a positive one is a different story). But _can't_ just...it hurts. It might actually be one of the most painful things I've felt, and in a way, I've found so much of the pain in my life is rooted in it. It hurts when someone leaves because you _can't_ bring them back. It hurts to feel heartbreak or even physical pain because you _can't_ just will it away. There's a lack of control over anything that hurts you.

And lately, I hurt me. Not in the physical sense, but it's as if my brain's come undone and is being run by whichever part of it doubts the rest of them. As much as I'll try to coordinate all of the functions and get myself out of bed and shower and get dressed and go to school and have friends and personal relationships and eat and sleep like a normal person, there's some sort of mental block keeping me from it. Everything reminds me of something else. Someone else. And how every move I make is broadcast somewhere, whether up on a pedestal or down in the slums of everyone's diluted opinions of me. Nothing I do ever goes unnoticed—at least, that's what my head's led me to believe. My own mind has turned against me and wants me to stop doing things. You know, the part of my body that coordinates all of the things that I do? It's telling me to stop doing them. And that hurts.

I've turned my phone off and stayed off of all social media sites to avoid anyone from school asking where I am. My mom called in and said I'm "not feeling well", which isn't a lie, but it's also not a good enough truth for most people, so I'm already predicting a storm of bystanders unsettled by my absence. As much as I want to be annoyed with the people who badger me over my days like this, who seem to feel entitled to my presence in order to maintain the balance in their daily lives regardless of any lack of balance I may be experiencing, I guess I can't blame them for worrying. It's not like I've been "myself" these days.

"Maya?" I hear the whir of my mom's electric wheelchair stop at the hall outside my door.

I don't know why I'm avoiding her, but I pretend to be asleep.

Surely the fact that I've been quiet for hours cues her in that this is no sleep of mine, at least not lately, so she turns down the hall to pause at the entrance to my room (which she insisted I keep open so she can "keep an eye on" me). "Maya?"

"Mhm?" The motivation to sound asleep is there, but the drive to pull it off just isn't.

"You want lunch or something? We have tomato soup. I can make grilled cheese."

I shake my head. "I'm not really hungry."

"Sweetie, it's almost four. You haven't eaten all day."

I curl up tighter to my comforter, feeling the indentation my face has made in my pillow from laying on it all day. "I know."

"Why don't you try and eat something?" Her voice is so sweet that it's sour in the pit of my empty stomach because I know she's trying so hard. "Do you want eggs? I could make French toast?"

Again, I shake my head. "I really don't feel good, Mom."

There's a momentary silence where I can practically hear her thinking. Eventually, she resurfaces with, "...At least come in and keep me company? Your dad's working late tonight. And you know nothing good's on TV at this hour."

With the amount she's put up with me over the last year, I owe her this much. "Okay." I can sense an air of relief about her as I shift to sit up, wrapping my fleece blanket around my shoulders and shifting my legs over the side of the bed. I'm sure she can tell I'm still in yesterday's school clothes, but she's not saying anything about it.

I take my phone with me and set it at my spot on the table. It's still off, but I just have to be sure no one's contacting me otherwise I'll just be thinking about it—not that anymore texts would coe through its black screen with it being in there than they would in here, but it's just...one of those things, I suppose.

"So are you sure you don't want anything?" She asks me as she wheels into the kitchen.

I shrug, "I suppose I'll have whatever you're having."

She glances at me as if to dispute this, but then nods. I'm sure she's already eaten but if having another meal will get one in me, she'll do it. I watch my middle-aged mother with multiple sclerosis shift herself from her wheelchair into forearm splints just so that she can get her perfectly-healthy fifteen-year-old daughter to feed herself. It's times like this that I think the only sick I am is sick of myself.

I listen to her start conversations she thinks I can participate in as I stare at my blank phone, knowing that it's off and that I don't want to deal with anyone's concern, anyway, but still unable to shake the thought of _wow, you've been gone all day and absolutely no one has noticed. _I'm perfectly aware that I've cut myself off from all contact so I wouldn't even know if anyone's tried to reach out to me. But that doesn't mean my unraveled brain is letting me get away with that peace of mind. The clock in the kitchen says that school's dismissed, meaning that all of the normal kids who completed their normal days have earned their free time by now. They're relieved from their classrooms and free to go ignore their homework and hang out with their friends while I get the unearned sense of relief knowing that I technically don't need to be anywhere else at the moment. The unearned part feels more obvious than the relief, though. It was easier last year, when it was harder. The grief was thicker, but it at least felt justified. It wasn't just "in my head". It was all over the school. And the news. And the obituaries. The constant reminder didn't help at all but it certainly gave my brain betrayal some validity. Now I just feel stuck in a sore that should have been healed by now.

The plate my mother sets in front of me breaks me from my trance. "Huh?" I look up at her, hearing the tail-end of a sentence I didn't quite catch.

She nods to the dish. "I asked if you wanted to take these to the couch so we can watch something."

I furrow my brows. "I thought you said nothing good was one?"

She gives a small shrug. "Maybe we can get a pay-per-view movie. I think they just added one of Johnny Depp's newer ones. I know you like him."

Offering a smile, I nod. My guess is she's noticed I've become conversationally inadequate but still wants to keep me around. Looking down at my plate, I see what seem to be crepes wrapped around stacks of sliced peaches like bouquets, complete with a dusting of sugar and a dollop of whipped cream. "You've been on Pinterest lately, haven't you?" I chuckle, looking up at her.

There's a falter to her smile but she doesn't act on it. "Yeah, actually! That's where I got this recipe. I have a whole breakfast board." There's a guilty feeling I get from the waver in her voice that makes me guess she told me this earlier when I wasn't computing.

I relocate our plates to the coffee table and curl up into my blanket as my mom flips through the movie options, waiting for me to give a response that isn't vague or open-ended. Before we can settle on something, the front door opens and Zig steps inside, his eyes finding us with a mild concern that he tries to dissolve once there's eye contact. "Hey, guys!"

I smile, "Hey Zig."

My mom waves at him. "You're just in time. We're looking for a movie to watch."

"Yeah? Like something Nicholas Sparks or something Quentin Tarantino."

I roll my eyes teasingly. "Mom was looking for something _Johnny Depp_, specifically."

"Oh yeah?" He chuckles, slinging the strap of his bag around one of the kitchen chairs. "Character Johnny Depp or serious Johnny Depp?"

She shakes her head, "Well, I was looking for that Transcendence movie but it doesn't look like they've added it yet. They have Into The Woods?"

"Oh, _God_." Zig half-laughs, half-groans.

I grin, "Yup, that's it. That's what we're watching then."

"You're so mean to me. Joke's on you because Anna Kendrick is hot," He points to me as he approaches the couches, nodding to the plates on the coffee table. "That looks good. What is it?"

"Peaches and cream crepes," My mom responds proudly as she starts the movie.

"They look awesome."

"Did you eat today?"

He shakes his head, "Nah, I wasn't hungry."

I gesture to my dish, "You want mine?"

But Mom instantly intercepts, "No, she hasn't eaten anything, either. Take mine, Zig, I'm not all that hungry."

"You sure?" He raises his eyebrows, but she nods, so he stretches to take her plate and bring it into his lap.

Mom nudges me with her elbow, "Eat."

I nod, "I'm gonna, I just...like waiting until the plot actually starts to start eating."

"It's not popcorn at a theatre, Maya, you can always pause it and go get something else if you want," Zig chuckles, popping a forkful of peach into his mouth.

I eye my plate but my stomach is still too full of guilt and sour to have room for anything else. "...I like waiting until the plot starts."

He shrugs, "Suit yourself."

We go through the movie with occasional commentary. Once Zig sets his empty plate next to my full one I can feel the attention go to my consumption so I take my plate to at least pick at the crepes. I get maybe one and a half down and push the rest around so that they smear the whipped cream enough to make it look like I tried. My appetite is lost on self-pity and the phone on the table that I'm still worried will alert me even though it's still off.

When it's over, Zig goes to take the dishes to the sink but Mom insists he stays back and fills me in on what I missed. He waits for her to be out of earshot before shifting to claim the spot on the couch next to me. "So is everything alright?"

I nod, "Yeah, why?"

His lips press together. "I don't know. You weren't in school."

I shrug, "Woke up late."

His brows furrow. "...So you missed the whole day because you woke up late?'

I nod again. "What did I miss?"

"Like you're sure you don't feel sick—"

"I'm fine."

He hesitates, his mouth falling open a bit for words but not knowing what they were.

"..._What._"

"I just want to know if you're feeling okay—"

"I am."

"...I mean, because you're not eating or anything—"

"I'm not hungry."

"...Is it like a weight thing? Because if anything, you're under—"

"It's not a weight thing, Zig, I'm not hungry. You weren't hungry so you didn't eat. I'm not hungry so I didn't eat. I'm not hungry. I just don't feel well. I'm fine."

He forehead creases. "...You're fine but you don't feel well—"

"Yes, now what did I miss?"

He eyes me carefully. I make sure annoyance is clear on my face so that it can mask the obvious burning in my cheeks. Eventually, he just nods. "...Fine. Okay, uh..." He gets up from the couch and crosses to retrieve his backpack. "Not that much, really. I went to your classes and the only ones that really had homework were Math and English, but I think the English one is just that essay you got last week...oh, yeah, uh...and we have another rubber room project."

I cock an eyebrow. "What kind of project."

He sifts through his backpack as he returns to the couch, pulling out a slightly wrinkled paper and handing it to me. "This stupid shit."

Taking the sheet, I read it over, nodding. "So we're presenting stories to little kids. Okay, that's pretty cute. Definitely works with that whole 'humanizing the rubber room' thing Grell's been trying to do."

"Yeah, just wait and see what our story is." He gestures to the other side of the paper.

I turn it over. "...The red string of fate." My gaze tops my glasses to point right back at him.

He holds his hands up. "I swear, this wasn't my doing."

"You totally planned this."

"No, they were given out at random, I...think..."

"You _think?_"

"I was kind of asleep when she gave the assignment."

"And _I'm_ the one worth worrying about," I tease, "So Grell totally planned it."

"No, originally we got something else but Tiny and Grace had this one—"

"So _Tiny and Grace _planned this—"

"No one planned anything, they just really didn't want to deal with it because it's sappy and chick-flick-y and ours was about a girl with no arms and they figured you'd like this one."

"And who's to say I wouldn't like the one with the girl with no arms?" I raise my eyebrows.

"No one, but they made a very valid point about how having the two of them tell a bunch of kids about soulmates would ruin their little outlooks on love forever so we should _do it for the kids._"

Pinching my up-curved lips, I nod. "Fine. I'll take it. So what's our presentation gonna be?"

"I...didn't plan that far ahead yet."

"Oh, so your plan just went to 'work with Maya on a soulmates project'—"

"I told you it wasn't me—!"

"I'm kidding, Zig," I chuckle, sitting back on the couch and pulling my hair up, trying not to cringe at the grit of the tangles I feel as my fingers sweep it up into a low-hanging ponytail. Before I can realize I don't have a hairband, Zig pulls one off of his wrist and hands it to me. "...Thanks."

He smiles. "I can brush it later, if you'd like."

"Is that part of your plan?"

He rolls his eyes. "Yes, Maya. I'm going to brush your hair and tie it up with a red string of fate that pulls you to me so I can keep you forever."

"That's not even how the story works, doofus."

"See, you know more about it than I do."

"Yes, _I_ planned this all the way from the comfort of my home."

"Hey, I don't know your life."

"On the contrary, Zig," I laugh gently, shaking my head, "I think you know my life even more than I do these days."

* * *

**Sorry it took me so long to revisit this story! I never planned on abandoning it, I have a whole future in mind for it that I couldn't just let go stagnant. Hopefully there are still some readers out there and hopefully you enjoy the update! Thank you to everyone who's been supporting my writing, it means so much. 3**

**-Kina**


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